One Night Love Affair
by bethalaina
Summary: Hermione is asked to accompany the Bulgarian ambassador around London.


Hermione took the tip of her pen out of her mouth when a knock sounded on the door of her cramped, cluttered office. Her father-in-law/boss stepped through. "Hermione, I—what kind of quill is that, my dear?"

She grinned; for the Head of the Muggle Relations department, Arthur was still often clueless about Muggle objects, not to mention as fascinated by them as he had ever been. "A ball-point pen."

"Wonderful! And you don't have to dip it in the ink? It's just sealed in the little tube?"

She nodded.

"But won't it leak out of the little holes in the end?"

"Well, no, I was just chewing on it. Those aren't normally there."

He looked confused. "It's flavored? Like a sugar quill?"

"No," she sighed, "it's a nervous habit. I've been working on these forms for the Eastern European countries you gave me to fill out, and the translation spells aren't working well. I need to go to a bookshop and pick up a dictionary."

"Oh, you do that," he replied. "Anyway, I didn't come to talk about your, ah, bell-point pen. We've got another ambassador coming in"—Hermione groaned—"and I'd like you to take this one."

Ever since England's Ministry had been commended for their Muggle Relations department, and the way England's Wizarding community managed to blend in with Muggle society so smoothly, ambassadors from other countries had been coming to visit, wanting to study England's methods. After the war, when the Death Eaters and Voldemort had wrought so much destruction upon both the Wizarding and Muggle communities, the Muggle Relations department had been working twice as hard as before to repair the damage. They had, apparently, done a terrific job. Despite the notoriously tedious visits from the foreign ambassadors, Hermione was proud of the work her department had done. The ambassadors were rather dreary to accompany around town, and they were terribly nervous and twitchy in Muggle London. Because of this, the department members traded off turns on escorting them, and Hermione _knew_ it couldn't possibly be her turn again yet. Could it?

She turned pleading eyes on Arthur. "Why me?" she asked. "I took the one time before last, and she was a _nightmare_."

"Well," he said, scratching his head, "I seem to remember that you speak a few words of Bulgarian, don't you? No one else does."

"Hello, goodbye, and a few words about Quidditch. Nothing useful." _And a couple about sex, too,_ Hermione added silently, remembering the year she had wanted to learn the language. She had never gotten the chance to use most of the words she'd learned. Except goodbye.

"Oh," Arthur answered regretfully, "I'm sorry. I thought you knew more. Also…you're the only person in the office who doesn't have tickets to the World Cup this weekend."

She laughed. "Right. Ron's going and taking the kids."

"We're all meeting there and sharing that tent that smells like cats, except Molly. Didn't you have plans with her?"

"I did, but I'll have to cancel them for the lovely ambassador. I'm certain I'd have a much better time with Molly." 

He smiled at her. "I'll have her make you a pie. Have fun with the ambassador. He's supposed to meet you at The Leaky Cauldron tomorrow at noon."

"Thanks," Hermione answered. "What's his name?"

"I don't know; his boss didn't say."

Terrific.

***

Hermione made it home just in time to make sandwiches, check the kids' knapsacks for clean underwear, and kiss each of them plus Ron on the cheek before sending them off to the Portkey. The rest of the evening was hers, and she curled up in her favorite chair with a book. Oddly, she couldn't concentrate: her thoughts were drifting from Ron and their relationship, to a new recipe for chicken soup Molly had given her, to her assignment with the ambassador tomorrow.

She thought she'd try the chicken soup recipe next Thursday, perhaps. She often fixed chicken on Thursdays. She laughed at herself then, so be so settled as to be planning meals a week in advance, to serve the same thing every week. She had even made chicken sandwiches for Ron and the kids this evening.

She always thought of them like that, _Ron and the kids_, a unit. Of course, they were individuals, and she knew that, knew when each one of the kids had Quidditch matches or exams during the school year, knew who liked which subjects best at Hogwarts. She knew Ron's favorite foods (all of them), knew all of the facts and details. And she cared about all of them. Her family. A unit.

Why wasn't there a "Ron and Hermione" anymore? He was her friend, her husband, and she knew everything about him, but there was no longer any passion. When was the last time he'd made love to her and she hadn't stared at the ceiling, counting the tiles and thinking about the paperwork she had to do the next day? Why wasn't there any _fire?_ She wanted to burn.

Disgusted with herself, berating herself for not being content with her healthy, happy family, Hermione wiped her curiously damp cheeks and stuck her nose back into her book. After all, no one else seemed to realize anything was missing between her and Ron—not even her husband.

***

Hermione strode into The Leaky Cauldron the next day at a quarter till noon, determined, as always, to do her best this weekend, despite the monotony that usually accompanied the visiting ambassadors. Scanning the crowd, she noted that no one in the pub appeared to be waiting for anyone at the moment. She leaned against the bar, ordered a butterbeer, and asked the bartender whether the Bulgarian ambassador had arrived yet.

"No, ma'am, I don't think so," he answered, passing her the bottle. "Seems to be the usual crowd, so far."

"If he asks for me, send him my way, will you?" she asked as paid, and then took a booth. While she waited, she worked on the blasted paperwork from the previous day. As before, the translation charm seemed to be malfunctioning.

"Dammit all!" she muttered under her breath, frustrated.

"Something is vrong, Miss Granger?"

Hermione gasped and jumped up at the unexpected voice beside her table. "Viktor!" she exclaimed.

He grinned. "Viktor Krum, Bulgarian ambassador, at your service. You vere expecting somevone else?"

She laughed, thrilled to see him, to know that this ambassador wouldn't be as dreary as the others had been. "Hermione Weasley, your tour guide for the weekend. And I didn't know who to expect; my boss wasn't given a name."

Viktor's grin seemed to fade a little around the edges. "Veasley, is it? I should haff guessed that you vould marry him. Or vas it vone of the others?"

"It's Ron," she answered as he joined her in the booth. They each gave lunch orders to the bored waiter, then Hermione turned back to Viktor. "How about you?"

"I vas married for avhile. My vife, she die six years ago. I haff a son, Branimir. He is entering Durmstrang this year," Viktor beamed with a father's pride. "Is excellent on a broom."

Hermione grinned. "That doesn't surprise me; look who his father is. Ron and I have a son and a daughter, Hugo and Rose. They're both at Hogwarts, great kids, especially as far as teenagers go."

Viktor looked slightly worried. "Teenagers are bad? Bran vill be there soon. I am so unprepared, sometimes. My Marissa vould alvays know vhat to do."

She felt a lump rising in her throat, conscious of the pain Viktor must still feel. She thought she remembered seeing a photo in one of Ron's Quidditch magazines several years ago, when Viktor left the sport, of him with a beautiful witch with shiny white-blonde hair. That must have been his Marissa. She pushed the image from her mind, tried to concentrate on the conversation. Teenagers. "_Sturm und drang,_ storm and stress," she said, "is what characterizes adolescence, according to one of those parenting manuals I read."

"So you still research efferything you do?"

"Absolutely." She'd even read the Kama Sutra. Dammit, she hoped she didn't say that out loud. Viktor was still entirely too sexy for his own good. Or hers, anyway.

Hermione's breath caught in her throat. Where on earth were these thoughts coming from? Viktor was just an old friend, a teenage crush. Perhaps she'd just gone without passion too long. Teenagers. Research. What was he saying now?

"Vas this a Muggle book, this parenting manual?"

"It was."

"Perhaps I can look for it vhile ve tour London. Ve can go to a bookstore? You vill show me?"

Ah, the man knew _exactly_ how to tempt her. Sure, she'd guide him to G. Stanley Hall's research. She nodded, then asked, "How did you get into Muggle Relations, Viktor? Last time I talked to you I thought you wanted to play Quidditch for the next hundred years or so."

He shrugged. "An office job vas better for Bran. Is not much travel involved, really. Ve haff several ambassadors; I am only vone. Usually is owl vork and the others make the trips. This is only fourth trip in eight years for me. I get to be home vith my boy. This year vill be lonely, vhen he is gone to school."

It suddenly struck her that Viktor would have no one at home. She was lonely during the school year too, missing the kids, but at least Ron was there. He wasn't great at deep conversation, but she wasn't alone, either. "Who's staying with Bran while you're here?" she asked.

Viktor cracked a broad smile. "My _mayka. _She is, how you say, a pistol? Bran adores his grandmother. She is around a lot, keeps us both in line. Vould be lost vithout her. I cannot effen make vater bubble in the pots."

Hermione laughed, and the conversation continued casually, easily, on into the afternoon. They made plans to meet back at the pub in Muggle attire to have dinner out in London, Viktor's first demonstration of the Wizarding community in Muggle England. It was, after all, a working weekend.

***

When Hermione returned to the pub, Viktor was waiting for her. She walked towards him slowly, savoring the view. His black slacks hugged his bum exquisitely, and his charcoal-grey dress shirt showed off his chest and broad shoulders. Something low in her belly quivered, giving her an urge to yank on his silver tie, pull him close, and kiss him, looking in those midnight eyes, run her fingers through the matching silver streaks in his dark hair. Oh, she knew better than to think these thoughts, but that man in those clothes made her wish that wizards _never_ wore robes. Muggles had the right idea when it came to clothes. Viktor was _made_ for Muggle attire.

She took a deep, hopefully calming breath and brushed her hands over her simple black dress, glad she wore the dressy shoes instead of the sensible ones. The high heels made her feel womanly. It was the appreciative glow in Viktor's eyes, however, that made her feel beautiful instead of simply middle-aged.

"This is for you," he murmured softly when she reached him. She took the red rose and breathed in the fragrance. It was in full bloom, as large as her outstretched hand. Her heart beat faster—this felt like a _date_, not a working dinner.

Viktor gazed at her thoughtfully, then took the rose back. He broke the stem off much shorter, and tucked the flower into her upswept hair. "There," he said. "You vill not haff to carry. And," his voice dropped an octave, "looks stunning, sveetheart."

Hermione's speedy heartbeat burst into a thousand butterflies, who took the opportunity to migrate to her stomach. Regardless of what this was _supposed_ to be, it was a date. A date her father-in-law set up for her. She let out a nervous giggle, and immediately blushed, like a silly little schoolgirl. Viktor smiled, and—with his classic Durmstrang manners—kissed the back of her hand, then hooked her hand through his arm to escort her into Muggle London.

During the walk to the restaurant, Hermione managed to choke back her nerves and ignore Viktor's heated gaze, focusing instead on work. The conversation revolved around the Ministry's methods of submersing wizards in Muggle society and their dealings with them—exactly what they were supposed to be discussing. Viktor, however, was a quick learner and asked exactly the right questions. Soon they had exhausted the topic. Hermione resorted to pointing out witches and wizards on the street—they passed several; she was grateful that she and Ron didn't know any of them.

Not that it should matter. She was _working_. But if Ron had known she was escorting Viktor around London, he would have exploded. He had been jealous of Viktor since their fourth year at Hogwarts. Thank gods he would never know the tangled emotions inside of his wife at this moment.

Viktor opened the restaurant door for her and guided her through with a large, warm hand on the small of her back. Hermione felt his palm burning long after he had moved it away. She watched numbly as he spoke smoothly to the maitre'd in his deep, accented voice. A disjointed thought drifted by: _He already handles Muggle life extremely well_. Then he turned those dark eyes, that smile with those full lips—made for kisses—on her and reached for her hand, to follow the maitre'd.

Viktor expertly sampled and ordered the wine, ordered dinner for both of them after asking her what she'd like. She grinned at him. "You're a pro at this Muggle stuff! Why on earth are you even here?"

He shrugged. "Boss send me. I go. Marissa vas Muggle-born; ve visit her family often. I learn, but vhen boss say go, I go."

"Makes sense," she mumbled, suddenly distracted by those lips again, this time sipping the red wine, imagining it staining them like lipstick. She swallowed hard and suddenly became very interested in her steak.

Throughout the meal, Hermione found herself drawn not only to Viktor's eyes, his lips, his large, fine hands and broad shoulders, but to the conversation, the gentle debate over both contemporary and ancient magical theory, the discussion of the differences of Eastern and Western European ancient runes, the detail work of certain charms, and so on, topics she was interested in and educated in. The night was in a downward spiral—she was falling for this man again, falling hard, impossibly falling. With a mind fuzzy not from the wine but from the powerful male across from her, Hermione chided herself, warning that she could not, must not, do this. She couldn't possibly allow herself to love Viktor Krum all over again. Innocent adolescent love was a simple thing to overcome, despite her thoughts to the contrary back then. Hermione wasn't so sure that overcoming these growing emotions would be as easy.

Somehow, though, she found herself walking through the London night with her hand in his, still absorbed in conversation, until eventually they just walked quietly.

In front of his hotel, Viktor stopped and stared at her, a penetrating gaze that went straight to her guilty heart, her helplessly plunging heart.

His voice was soft and tender when he spoke. "Sveetheart, tonight has been…incredible, special. I know vas supposed to be just vork, but for me has felt like so much more. I know you haff Veasley, cannot be more for you, but for tonight you haff taken some of this terrible loneliness out of my soul. I thank you for that, you do not know how much." He smiled then, a sweet sad smile that tore little pieces off of the outside edges of her heart. And she made a sudden decision that was so utterly not the Hermione she had known for so many years.

She kissed him.

Kissed him deep, tasted him, drank of the sweet nectar that was Viktor's essence, the flavor she remembered from so many years ago, a fermented innocence that gripped her and raced through her body.

Viktor moaned against her lips and turned her, never letting the contact break, to lean her against the cool stone of the building behind them. Hermione felt one of those big hands wrap around the back of her neck, teasing the tiny curling tendrils there, and the other hand caressed her lower back, pressing her body against his. She sighed as she felt his thigh, hot through the thin slacks, creep between her own. She bunched the fabric of his shirt in her fists and lost herself to the drowning sweetness, the overwhelming heat, of Viktor and his kiss.

When they finally had to come up for air, Viktor rested his forehead against hers, panting. He muttered a soft Bulgarian oath and stood up, locking his obsidian eyes with hers. "Vould you…" Viktor paused, and bit his bottom lip, as if suddenly uncertain.

"Would I like to come up for coffee?" Hermione asked boldly, shocking herself.

With a masculine chuckle, Viktor replied, "Yes, exactly, except I cannot vork coffee machine in the hotel room."

"I can." She paused and took his hand. "But I want you to know…erm…" Hermione stumbled for words. She met his beautiful eyes again and choked out. "I want you to know I'm not really the, um, coffee-drinking type. I mean, I've never drank coffee with anyone except my husband before. This will be the first time I've drank coffee with someone else. I don't drink coffee with just anyone, you know, drop everything and drink coffee with men in hotel rooms."

Viktor looked at her as though she had sprouted a second head. "Vhat on earth you are talking about? Coffee?"

She felt a bit guilty for the metaphor and confusing Viktor. It was just so difficult to come out and say it. She took a deep breath. "Sex, Viktor. I've never had sex with anyone except my husband."

Understanding lit up his eyes, and he kissed her cheek softly. "I did not think that you vere, sveetheart. I feel very special, much honored, and more than a bit guilty about this. But you are so beautiful, and…" Viktor swallowed and his voice grew softer and deeper, "…I haff vanted to be vith you for so long, so many years, since ve vere at Hogvarts together and you vere too young. Do not misunderstand me, I loffed my Marissa and alvays vill, but you vere special then and are special to me now, Hermy-own-ninny. You vere first girl I loffed."

Hermione's vision blurred with tears, and then he was kissing her again, pulling her to the elevator. Between fevered kisses Viktor fumbled for the key card, became frustrated, and with furtive glances up and down the hall, slipped out his wand. He opened the door with a simple "_Alohomora!_"

Hermione laughed at him, "That's against the rules! Remember, we're pretending to be Muggles!"

She tugged him into the room, finally getting the chance to pull on his silver tie. He ran his hand through her hair, pulling down her updo, causing the rose to fall on the floor by the bed. He picked her up and sat her down on the high, soft bed and then knelt on the carpet between her legs. He slipped off the black stiletto, then rand his large palm slowly up her pantyhose, gently stroking until he reached the lacy top holding the stocking in place on her thigh. He kissed around the lace and rolled the stocking down, chasing its trail with kisses, melting Hermione's spine like butter. By the time he finished the other leg, she had her hand on the tie again, pulling him down to stain his lips with her lipstick, like she'd imagined when he drank his wine.

Viktor moved away from her and slipped her dress up and over her head, leaving her wearing two scraps of black lace—cliché, of course, but at least everything matched, down to the lace on her discarded hose. Her lingerie matched Viktor's eyes: the chocolate had turned black with desire, with need, and Hermione had never imagined that she could see so many colors dancing adrift in an ocean of obsidian. She reached for his buttons, pushed his shirt off of his shoulders, and splayed her fingers in the coarse hairs speckling his broad chest. She had never thought of men as beautiful—handsome, attractive, sexy, but never beautiful. Viktor was all of those things, rolled together, but beautiful was the best word she could think of for him. He was divine, and she was drowning in him.

When all of their clothing lay scattered around the hotel room, and she could gaze at the fine lines and planes of his body, Viktor kissed her in places she didn't think had ever received a man's attention before, leaving her quivering. He moved over her, kissing her mouth like he would climb into her soul through it, and the burning need at the junction of her legs screamed for him. When she reached for her wand on the nightstand to cast the spells, he grinned. "No, no. Ve pretending to be Muggles, remember?" She watched, dismayed, as his weight left her body and disappeared into the bathroom.

He returned with several little foil packets. "You know how to use these?" he asked. "I do not. Thought it might be fun to try. They vere in the little hotel gift basket on sink."

Hermione giggled at the excited little-boy look on his face. "Sure. I've put them on bananas, but I've heard they aren't as much fun as you think they are."

He gave her a bewildered glance. "Bananas?"

She shrugged. "It was something my mum made me learn to do when I was fourteen or so, just in case."

He looked amused but didn't comment. "Here," he said, "this vone is red. I like red. You do it? Or vant to show me how?"

She took the packet from him. "I will," she grinned, "and you can watch so you'll know for the next time." She nearly choked on her last words. Next time? This was one night. Only one night.

After two attempts, Viktor declared that Muggle protection was ridiculous and did not fit real men, then cast the proper charms. Hermione lay back, wondering that such a…what? Such a _real_ moment could happen in the midst of the heat of lovemaking. Sex. Whatever. A gap in the desire, an interlude where they just fit together, without ruining anything. What could that possibly mean?

But then Viktor was moving over her, kissing her intimately, leaving a wet trail from her damp curls to her breasts, then up to her lips. She felt the tip of his body probing her the same way his tongue teased her lips, and she slid a shaking hand between their bodies to guide him into her. She spread her fingers around him, felt him pushing slowly in, inch by terrible wonderful inch, until she was full, stretched tight, aching for him to move. Then he glided back out, between her fingers, and she felt her moisture coating his skin. Then he was moving faster, his eyes locked with hers, and she felt herself gripping his back, his buttocks, clinging to him, lost in Viktor's soul. He varied speed, slowing to draw it out longer, until Hermione couldn't bear it any longer, and melted in a burst of glorious sunshine, seeing the wild, primitive, desperate look in Viktor's dark eyes as she took him with her. Through the golden fog, she heard his voice whispering into her damp hair: "_Obicham te…obicham te…_"

And then she felt herself cradled against the strong warmth of Viktor's chest, and the quiet, desperate words faded into sleep.

***

Hermione awoke to a pleasant soreness in her body and a pair of chocolate eyes gazing at her. When she saw Viktor's rumpled hair and lazy grin, all of the memories of the night's lovemaking came back to her—the first frenzied bout of need, the slow, sweet passion of the following times. The Bulgarian words he'd murmured into her hair, her ears, her lips, over and over.

"Good morning, sveetheart," Viktor asked, brushing a tender kiss across her swollen lips. "Vant breakfast? Or dessert?"

She groaned, then laughed. "Viktor, my body can't take any more dessert. I'll be lucky to be able to walk out of this room!"

He looked at her sympathetically and kissed her softly. Then, his eyes took on a devilish glint. "Tell me vhere it hurts, baby. I kiss and make it _allll_ better…" And his talented lips and skillful tongue suddenly were making it all better. Hermione felt herself dissolving again, joining souls with Viktor in a dance of intimacy.

Later, she lay on the bed, listening to the shower running and Viktor singing off-key in Bulgarian. What had she done? Hermione had never had a one-night stand in her life. It had, however, been amazing, wonderful…exactly what she had been missing. Passion, someone to really talk to. She realized, with amazement, that somehow, after one single night, she was in love with Viktor Krum, an impossible love that she could never, ever act upon again. After all, this was a one-time event; Ron would never find out. But if it continued, it would grow ever more risky. Hermione felt her heart deflating.

She rolled over on her side and looked over the edge of the bed, to the scattered clothing. The big red rose Viktor had planted in her hair was still lying there by one of her stockings. The petals were wilted, like the place in her soul that loved him. Hermione buried her face in the pillow as the hot tears came.

***

They spent the day in Muggle London, as their jobs dictated they should. Instead of discussing Muggle Relations, however, the conversation revolved around everything else—books, charms, raising teenagers, things they shared interests in. Hermione often found Viktor's large Seeker's hand curled around her smaller one, and had to force herself to pull it away. What if someone saw them?

She didn't want to care if anyone saw them.

As they were walking towards the bookstore, their last stop before Viktor left to catch his Portkey, Hermione allowed him to keep her hand in his. His thumb traced a pattern across her knuckles. She had never felt so…so _cherished_…not since she was fifteen years old, and this was different, more mature, more _alive_.

"Viktor," she asked suddenly, remembering, "what did those words mean? _Obicham te?_"

Viktor's eyes widened and he swallowed, then looked away from her, seeming interested in a couple walking by. "_Obicham te?_ Means…just means that you are beautiful, Hermy-own-ninny." He looked back to her and smiled, then lifted her hand and kissed it. "And you are, sveetheart, very much beautiful."

Hermione felt her heart flutter again for this amazing man, a man she loved, a man who would leave in an hour. A man she would never see again, after this one-night affair—a love that wasn't for keeps.

***

A week later, Hermione sat at her desk, trying again to muddle through the Bulgarian paperwork with the faulty translation spell. Viktor had told her that his boss needed it back within two weeks. She choked back the ache in her throat at the thought of his name, refusing to let the tears come, remembering the touch of those large, tender hands caressing her. Remembering his lips following her stockings down her legs. _Damn_.

At the knock on her door, Hermione hurriedly composed herself and called, "Come in!" Arthur, a package in his hand, entered and sat on a miraculously uncluttered corner of her desk.

"Are you all right, dear? You've seemed a bit out-of-sorts lately."

"I'm fine," she said, waving the question away. "I'm just stressing out over this paperwork. This translation spell is the worst I've ever seen."

"Maybe this'll help," he said, handing her the package. "It's that Bulgarian-English Wizarding dictionary you asked me to order."

Hermione thanked him and ripped it open excitedly; Arthur chortled at her joy in the new book. She opened the cover and ran her finger down the list of commonly used phrases, just checking the dictionary out. Arthur started talking about some "bell-point pens" he had bought, but Hermione didn't hear him.

She had found a familiar phrase.

_Obicham te_.

It didn't mean "You're beautiful."

_I love you_.

***

Weeks later, Arthur's head poked in Hermione's door. "I just spoke with the Bulgarian department Head. He's sending his ambassador back again, said he'd send the same one. I wondered if you'd be interested in showing him around again, since you took care of him last time?"

Hermione swallowed a lump in her throat.

_Obicham te_.

Could she handle more than a one-night love affair?


End file.
